


What Did You Say?

by Letha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Parent!lock, Parenthood, Parents & Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:30:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letha/pseuds/Letha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John stared at Hamish and wondered, again, why his son wouldn't speak to him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Did You Say?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you oh so very much to lovely Otter, who not only gave me the prompt that made this fic pour out of me, but also betaed the whole piece!! You're amazing! ♥ (That said, any stray mistakes are completely my fault.)
> 
> Also, special thanks to the amazing peeps of #antidiogenes, without whom I would've never finished this. You rock, guys! Go Word Wars! ^_^

John stared at Hamish and wondered, again, why his son wouldn't speak to him. Psychologists assured them it was normal, the headmistress agreed, the pedagogical team of the school he was attended concurred... And yet, no matter how normal it was, John couldn't help but feel empty because his own son did not talk to him. He had no trouble communicating with anyone. Not one person, but John.

He should be used to it already. Yes, he knew that. He kept repeating to himself that he shouldn't push Hamish to talk to him. But every time he saw the way Hamish interacted with other people, or even with Sherlock, he felt a pang of pain all over again. Why Sherlock, why Mrs. Hudson, why _Mycroft_ , and not him? Was he being a bad parent? Was he too pushy? Too careful?

Sometimes he felt the urge to grab Hamish by the shoulders and shake him, beg him to talk. In his head, whenever they locked eyes, he would be pleading for him to talk. _Please, please Hamish. Please talk to me._

That is why he was surprised the first time Hamish addressed him.

“Daddy, can you read me The Cat In The Hat?” he had asked with his angelic voice. He was wearing his onesies, the light blue ones with the bear pattern he loved so much. He had his book in his hand, and was stretching as far as he could. His eyes were sparkling, his lips curved up. John looked down at him in astonishment and just nodded.

He took the book with one hand and rustled Hamish's hair with the other, holding back the happy tears that were threatening to form in his eyes. He smiled widely as he took in the situation. Hamish had spoken to him. Whatever he had asked, John would have agreed to.

Swallowing thickly in an attempt to loosen the knot in his throat, John took Hamish in his arms and carried him to his bedroom. That night, they fell asleep together in the small bed, smiling in contentment.

In spite of all his hopes, Hamish didn't talk to him again for weeks. They exchanged the same smiles and touches as they used to, their interactions were as loving as usual, but no matter how much John attempted to get his son in a conversation, Hamish would not address him.

Sherlock held John in his arms as he cried himself to sleep the following night.

Months after that first time, Hamish came up to John and asked him whether he wanted some tea.

John had been reading the paper in the living room, waiting for his two roommates to wake up, when he heard light footsteps approach him. Putting the paper aside, he welcomed Hamish onto his lap and greeted him. He rubbed his eyes, still half-asleep, and yawned.

“Daddy,” he said in a raspy voice. John tensed, completely alert now. “Do you want some tea? Can I make some?”

Sherlock had taught him how to put the kettle on the previous day–something John was not extremely happy about–and Hamish wanted to try it out. John, again, nodded and said nothing.

Hamish beamed in response and rushed to the kitchen. John followed him a few steps behind, walking was though he were dreaming. He helped his son fill and turn on the electric kettle, set two cups on the table, on their respective saucers, prepare the tea they were going to brew. Then pour water on it, prepare the tea.

Afterwards they filled the cups and drank the hot beverage in silence. And yet, Hamish directed no more words to him from the moment John nodded.

Renewed sadness took over John's mind.

That night, he discussed it with Sherlock for the thousandth time. They lay awake for hours after Hamish fell asleep, going over the events and possible reasons why their son was not talking to John. He cried several times, until his eyes were red and waterless, at which moment he kept sobbing even though no moisture ever rolled down his cheeks anymore.

Sherlock embraced him again. He let John bury his face on his chest, shaking and full of anguish. He tried as hard as he could to assure him it was nobody's fault, that Hamish would talk to him normally at some point.

The next months were marked by a constant question inside John's head; he wondered time and again when Hamish would address him again, and how it happened in the first place.

However, no matter how hard he hoped, Hamish wouldn't part his lips to say a word to John. He would approach him as usual, share his small achievements, fall asleep on his lap while Sherlock performed a song for them. But he would not utter a word to John.

Sherlock taught him how to play the violin soon after his fifth birthday. The boy was a fast learner, and soon enough he was playing next to his father. Whenever

Sherlock disappeared for a case or an experiment, knowing how much John missed him, Hamish would stand by his side with his small instrument and play the most beautiful tunes to him. Every time, John would compliment him on his performance. And every time, Hamish would nod and smile in clear, yet silent, thanks.  
John had decided not to mind it any more, but every time his son spoke to him made everything harder and harder to ignore. His childish voice was like a drug John was becoming addicted to. And yet, he couldn't have it often enough.

When Hamish learned how to play the violin, he decided to communicate through it with his dad. He would play sequences of notes that made a lovely tune, but let out a meaning too. Until one day. John and Hamish had argued–or as much as you can argue with a violin. It was a silly, domestic fight: Hamish did not want to eat.

“It is vital,” John stated. “You needed it.”

Hamish played one single loud note. _Why?_

“Because you need food!”

His son tilted his head in Sherlock’s direction, obviously attempting to make a point. He was immerse in his thought palace, eyes closed, fingertips touching in an arch. Another set of sharp notes arose from Hamish’s violin in protest.

“Your dad does eat, Hamish. He just... He eats, okay? And so should you. Now get over here and finish your meal.”

Hamish frowned and set his jaw, pulling a new tune made of high-pitched sounds.

“Sherlock is a grown-up. He makes his own decisions, however terrible they are. Now, you need to eat!” John got to his feet and walked to his son. “Go sit down.”  
Hamish held his floor. The tune he played sound extremely close to a “No.”

“Hamish!” came a scream from the living room. Sherlock was frowning at him. “Do what your father says.”

Hamish buffed and muttered under his breath, until he set the violin aside and begrudgingly sat on his chair.

It astonished John afterwards, as he lay on bed next to a sleeping Sherlock, how much he understood Hamish's musical language.

That same night, Hamish walked to his door. The corridor lights created a halo around him, although they darkened his expression. John gestured for him to walk closer to the bed. Hamish did as asked, and as soon as he reached the closer spot next to John's head, he threw his small arms around his dad's neck and hugged him.

“I'm sorry, daddy,” he whispered into his ear.

John swallowed back fresh tears and sat up, picking Hamish up and holding him close.

“It's okay, hunny. I'm sorry I yelled at you.”

Hamish shook his head and nuzzled his dad's neck. “No, daddy. I'm sorry. Really sorry.”

He fell asleep in John's arms, while John replayed the scene in his mind. After some time, he finally slid down, resting his son next to him, right between Sherlock and himself. Silent tears rolled down his eyes and fell on the pillow as he observed the two people he loved the most remain silently unaware of him. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep.

When John awoke the next morning, Sherlock wasn't there. Their son, however, was. Hamish was still asleep, his arms still holding John close. John smiled and allowed his eyes to close, sighing happily. The events that led to him having his son sleep next to him the previous night came back to him. John felt warmth spread through his chest as he remembered each and every second of their small exchange. He moved even closer to the sleeping boy.

A moment later, John heard footsteps approaching through the corridor. Only then did he open his eyes, to see Sherlock enter the room, carrying a tray upon which there were three small tea cups, a pile of toast, some jam, and some butter. And one single flower in a small vase.

“Morning,” John said, beaming, as Sherlock sat on the bed next to them.

Sherlock pecked John's lips and replied with a simple, “Morning.”

“What is all of this?” John asked after a moment. Hamish stirred in his arms.

Sherlock shrugged. “I just thought the two of you looked too peaceful to be bothered to come sit at the table.”

Hamish groaned, awoken by his parents' murmurs. He blinked a few times, stirred a little, and finally let out a sleepy sigh.

“Hi,” he said, closing his eyes again.

“Hello, Hamish,” Sherlock greeted him.

John smiled. “Hi baby. Sleep well?”

Hamish nodded, and John's heart dropped to his feet. For whatever reason, he had been hoping Hamish would talk to him again. But why would that change overnight? He sighed. Sherlock caught his eye and smiled sympathetically. John closed his eyes again, trying with all his might to calm down. A moment later, he sat up.

“Do you want milk with yours, Hammy?” he asked as he poured tea into one of the cups.

“Yes please.”

John's head snapped down at his son, so fast that he forgot he was holding a kettle. Some tea fell on his lap, and he yelped, startled by the sudden burn. Sherlock took the kettle in his hands and put it back down on the tray.

“What... What did you say?” John asked, lifting Hamish up. The kid stared at him as though he had gone mental, but John didn't mind. He raised Hamish over his head, crooking his neck back to stare into Hamish's eyes. He smiled. “Hamish, what did you just say?”

Sherlock put his hand on John's arm, and somewhere in the back of his mind the latter registered his lover was calling his name. But it didn't matter. He only had eyes for his child.

“I said yes, please,” the kid repeated. Hamish smiled wider, realization hitting him. ”I said I wanted milk.”

John put his son down only for a second, just long enough to hug him. He engulfed the child between his arms and held him tight. Hamish laughed in his ear. John closed his eyes tightly, tears forming in them once again.

“You said yes. You said yes,” he repeated, sobbing.

Sherlock put the tray aside and kneeled on the bed in order to hug his family. The morning was one of pure joy, when Hamish finally talked to John.


End file.
